


Curiosity and Thirst--Sated

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Curiosity and Thirst--Sated

“I must admit that when I extended this invitation I was expecting someone with a beard and a poor sense of humor, not that I’m displeased that it’s you instead, but you will have to give me a moment to get over my initial shock—and now it’s gone.”   
  
The Antivan was naked, spread out like a well-loved house cat, his gaze languid as he took Fenris in, shifting on one bare hip. He was dusky bronze and sand, and sun-kissed blond hair, with darting, perceptive eyes a color like warm, dark whiskey. Whatever initial surprise that had made him wary was gone, and he stretched his arms over his head, arching his back, his look distinctly vulpine as it fell on Fenris, watching him hover in the doorway, the doorknob still held slack in one hand.   
  
Fenris closed the door, his eyes just as focused as Zevran’s, though for different reasons. Zevran’s body was a treasure map of ink and scars; he was marked, not by lyrium, but he could see his life etched into his skin. He wondered if it hurt, and was certain that it could not have hurt a much as his brands. But he knew pain. Fenris sympathized.   
  
“You are in no danger,” Zevran said suddenly, and Fenris snapped his gaze from the small window to the elf on the bed, who had sat up, comfortably resting back on his elbows, following the path of Fenris’ eyes with his own. “There are no assassins waiting to jump out of the closet to ambush you. There is an assassin in the room, true, but I am hardly in a position to put up a fight.” Zevran lifted his hands, palms flat and empty—a magician’s trick, there is nothing in my hands, nothing up my sleeves… He had no shame; it seemed as though it would have fit him poorly, like chantry robes or armor designed for a much larger man.  
  
There were other places Fenris could be; he could be at the vacant manor that he called home, or at the Hanged Man—admittedly, the Blooming Rose smelled a lot better, even if it was just as boisterous—Isabela kept a room there, he knew he was welcome, and then there was Hawke’s mansion, where he had come from, slinking out like a wild animal, restless and hungry.   
  
“Hawke is mine,” Fenris said, low and sure, though his voice lacked the force he wanted behind it.   
  
“No doubt.” When Zevran raised a brow, it made the tattoo on his cheek twitch, and Fenris traced it with his eyes. “So, you hold a claim on Hawke, but does he hold one on you? Perhaps not, you are here, after all.”   
  
“Maybe I’m here to warn you away from sending lurid invitations to my…to Hawke.”   
  
“You could be. You’re remarkably polite if that is your goal,” Zevran said cheerfully, a smile spreading across his full lips. “I am used to seeing far more weapons and snarling involved when I am being threatened.”   
  
Fenris gave him that one; he had come unarmed, though he knew he could easily defend himself if necessary. All it took was a thought, a reaching inside of himself to find the veins of lyrium and touch them, pour them over his skin like liquid fire and shift into the incorporeal. He was in no danger, even without a weapon.   
  
“Have you ever had Antivan brandy?” Zevran sat up, crossing his legs as he reached for the nightstand, picking up a bottle approximately the size and shape of an apple, the bottom flat so it rested steadily on the table. “It is best consumed warm—no, it is best consumed off of the body of a lovely Antivan prostitute, but, alas.” He cupped the bottle between his hands and rested it there, keeping one eye on Fenris as he moved tentatively into the room.   
  
“I’m more of a wine drinker, myself,” Fenris said, watching Zevran curiously as he rolled the bottle in his hands. The stopper was glass, a delicate simulacrum of a bird skull—a crow, no doubt. He looked again at Zevran’s body, the scars, the tattoos, the swirling mass of coffee and black ink on his back and shoulders—he had wanted those, surely, and Fenris wondered what it felt like to want someone to mark your skin.   
  
“They have a full bar downstairs, though you’re missing out if you don’t try the brandy.” Zevran pinched the skull on the stopper and pulled it out, and the room filled with a heady floral sweetness. He tilted the bottle slightly towards Fenris where he had come to stop at the end of the bed, proffering it, that wide, assured smile plastered onto his lips.   
  
Fenris touched the bottle with light fingers, it was warm to the touch. He met Zevran’s eyes and watched a brow raise, they both knew what he’d come for.   
  
“Best consumed off of an Antivan prostitute, you say?” Fenris took the bottle, holding the open mouth under his nose.   
  
Zevran stretched out again, lacing his fingers behind the pillow, under his head. “Technically, if you paid me, I would be an Antivan prostitute.”   
  
Fenris reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out a gold coin.   
  
“Are we playing it that way then? Ahh, how fun. Come, then, give me the bottle.”   
  
Fenris put a knee onto the bed, returning the brandy to Zevran, watching with hungry eyes as he took it and tipped it just slightly, pouring a small rivulet of the honey-colored spirit over his collarbone and down his chest, rolling slow over his tight stomach to disappear within the thatch of blond hair between his legs.   
  
“Come, you don’t want it to go to waste, do you?”   
  
Zevran’s skin was hot under his tongue, and the sticky sweetness of the brandy was pleasant—very much unlike the bite of Pavali, but pleasant just the same. He traced the trail, starting low, just above Zevran’s stiffening cock, avoiding it to tease him as he dragged the tip of his tongue up his body, feeling the heat of it running through his own as surely as if he were in Zevran’s position. It was different from Hawke and Isabela—not better, not worse, just different, an excitement building from the physical, rather than from emotion or friendship.   
  
They were both wanting, so they took what was freely given with lips, and teeth, and tongue, hands on shoulders and legs between thighs, making of them a tangle of breath and sweat.    
  
Fenris stayed longer than he planned to, took more than he planned to, gave more as well, and started to reassess his ability to properly plan things.   
  
It was no matter—his thirst was quenched.


End file.
